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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549041">Heart, Keep Racing</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle'>parcequelle</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Closer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Office Sex, Secret Relationship</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 17:00:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,611</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23549041</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/parcequelle/pseuds/parcequelle</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sharon flushes, tongues the swollen spot on her lip where Brenda bit her. She knows she’ll be able to see it, when she looks. She isn’t sorry.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Brenda Leigh Johnson/Sharon Raydor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>102</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Smut 4 Smut 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Heart, Keep Racing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts">kimaracretak</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Happy Smut 4 Smut Day, kimaracretak! I really hope you enjoy this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sharon’s back meets Brenda’s office door and it isn’t gentle, isn’t considerate or kind, but this thing between them never is. Pushed against unyielding wood with strong, slender hands and the adrenaline of having obtained a fresh confession, Sharon provides just enough resistance to make Brenda exert a little force, but she’s always going to go where Brenda bids her. She might go kicking and screaming, but she’ll go.</p><p>Brenda knows it, too. Her fingers are quick and insistent and her mouth is fierce, a hot, wet slant against Sharon’s that is as effective as any CIA interrogation technique in getting her to talk; Sharon heaves in a noisy breath and hisses, ‘Harder, stop holding back,’ and Brenda plays into it, bites down onto Sharon’s sensitive bottom lip to pull warm-copper blood.</p><p>‘You… givin’ me… orders, Captain Raydor?’ Brenda mutters, kiss-studded, and Sharon arches up into her wandering hands in response.</p><p>‘Hurry up,’ Sharon tells her. ‘We haven’t got long.’</p><p>Brenda pulls back to scowl, and Sharon’s stomach twists hard at the sight of her spit-ruined lipstick and the faded purple hickey, a memento from last week’s session, peeking out from beneath her horrible cardigan. God, Sharon can’t stand her, but she’s delectable like this, eyes dark with want as she tries and fails to keep control.</p><p>‘Stop tellin’ me what to do,’ Brenda snaps. Sharon reaches out to trace a finger over her lips, quietly smug when Brenda bites at it and then looks annoyed with herself, like she hadn’t meant to give in to the temptation but hadn’t been able to stop herself.</p><p>‘Or what?’ Sharon asks. She’s using her innocent, saccharine voice, the one she knows Brenda hates, because she loves the way it makes Brenda sneer. ‘You’ll leave?’</p><p>‘For Heaven’s sake, just be quiet and let me get on with it, will you?’</p><p>Brenda throws her monstrosity of a handbag to the ground, hitches the waistband of her skirt farther up her tiny waist, and drops to her knees on a cushion of black leather.</p><p>Sharon’s stomach rolls and pulses and drops, and she says, ‘I do believe that’s what I just… oh <i>God,</i> Brenda, I—’</p><p>Much as she’d have liked to finish that sentence, Brenda has just slid her hands around to grip Sharon’s thighs, strong and punishing, weakening Sharon’s show of resistance with every press. Brenda squeezes her ass and caresses the join of her thigh and her hip, digs her thumb right into the sensitive divot beneath Sharon’s hipbone and makes her gasp; Sharon looks down at her, reaches out to knot her fingers through Brenda’s loose, curly hair, and Brenda smirks up at her like they have all the time in the world.  </p><p>Insults fail her as she looks into hot dark eyes, as she gives into the hormone-fuelled urge to stroke her thumb along Brenda’s flushed cheekbone. She’s beautiful, especially on her knees like this, a deputy chief at the mercy of a captain. The thought pools wetness between her thighs, dampening the satin of the underwear she’ll never confess to having bought with this scenario in mind. She bites the inside of her cheek as Brenda’s cool fingers draw a slow line along the top of her pubic hair, dipping in and twisting and tugging while she smirks at Sharon’s sharp loss of breath. </p><p>The teasing touch leaves her throbbing, impatient, but Brenda only moves to undo the hidden fastening of Sharon’s skirt. It isn’t a pencil skirt, today, but a loose thing that flares at the knee – she has learned the hard way that the tight ones aren’t practical for quick rendezvous, regardless of how they make Brenda’s eyes follow her legs like she’s a chocolate snack cake.</p><p>‘Don’t make too much noise, now, Sharon.’ Brenda is smirking up at her, a cocky expression at odds with the way she is gently, torturously caressing Sharon’s hyper-responsive skin. ‘I know how you like to scream, but it wouldn’t be right to do it in the middle of your boss’ office right before an inter-departmental meeting, would it?’</p><p>‘Hmnnn,’ Sharon manages, tightening her fingers in Brenda’s hair and enjoying the hiss of pleasure-pain she knows too well. Brenda slides her hands up beneath Sharon’s skirt, up her knees and her thighs, up, up, until—</p><p>‘<i>Would</i> it, Sharon?’ she presses, and Sharon nearly whines.</p><p>‘<i>No</i>,’ she snaps. ‘For God’s sake, Brenda, just fuck me.’</p><p> ‘There it is,’ Brenda says, smug and infuriating and God, Sharon hates her. ‘Now I know you really want it.’</p><p>Despite herself, Sharon huffs out a laugh at the ludicrousness of this statement. ‘As though you weren’t certain already,’ she drawls, and then she promptly forgets whatever else she was going to say, because Brenda has lifted Sharon’s skirt, ducked her head underneath it, and breathed hot, hungry air over Sharon’s cunt.</p><p>Sharon sighs in relief, in desperation, and a shiver catches and thrills down her spine. Her hands feel strangely bereft without Brenda’s hair as their victim, so she settles for pressing her fingers into Brenda’s narrow shoulders, for gripping on as tightly as she can in non-verbal encouragement.</p><p>‘Stop wigglin’,’ Brenda mumbles, lips buzzing against Sharon’s clit, and Sharon jerks again, involuntary, against Brenda’s face.</p><p>‘Sorry,’ she breathes, patting at Brenda’s warm neck. ‘Sorry.’</p><p>Brenda says nothing, but she punishes her – or rewards her – with a long, slow lick over slick-wet satin and lace. Her tongue is everywhere and too far away all at once, and Sharon’s groan travels up from the tips of her toes to the shuddering, heated twist of her spine. She moves to push the underwear down her legs, office and upcoming meeting and very real time constraints be damned, but Brenda bats her hand away. ‘No,’ she says, an order, from in between Sharon’s legs. ‘They come off when I say they come off.’ A pause, too wicked to mean anything good. ‘Or if.’</p><p>‘If?’ Sharon cries. ‘Brenda!’</p><p>‘Shut up, Captain,’ Brenda says, and licks her again, and again. Brenda licks her as though they’re in bed on a lazy Sunday morning – as though it were possible, as though this could ever be anything more than quick and risky trysts in illicit places – and as though there’s no barrier, emotional or political or material, between them. Brenda licks her as though the way she tongues along Sharon’s slit, curling in and around her clit, isn’t making Sharon want to rip the damn things off herself, just to feel the unimpeded, irresistible truth of Brenda’s tongue inside her. </p><p>Sharon is arching up against Brenda’s mouth, grinding shamelessly into her in an effort to get closer, when she feels – finally, <i>finally</i> – two slender fingers slip under the seam of her panties, through wet, tangled curls, and find their easy way inside her. She clenches around them, desperate, needing to pull them in, and she feels Brenda let out a hot, ragged breath against her before she starts moving them rhythmically out and in. With the hand that’s gripping Sharon’s hipbone so hard it will surely bruise, Brenda rucks Sharon’s skirt up as far as it will go, exposing her quivering thighs to the artificial air of the over-cooled room. If she didn’t eat so much sugar, Sharon thinks tartly, she might not need to cool her battleground to 59 degrees in mid-fall.</p><p>‘Sharon, Sharon,’ Brenda murmurs, pupils blown wide, eyes flicking erratically between her fingers and Sharon’s face. ‘You gonna come or not?’</p><p>Sharon tries to laugh, but it comes out a whimper when Brenda shuffles forward and sweeps the flat of her tongue across Sharon’s clit again, hard. ‘How could I not in this… this… <i>oh god</i>, romantic setting?’</p><p>Brenda pulls back from where she’s buried in Sharon’s cunt, lips red and messy, chin glistening, and something deep inside Sharon’s gut growls its low, possessive voice of approval. Brenda licks her lip, pink tongue unashamed, and the thing growls again, louder. ‘I wasn’t aware you were interested in romance,’ she says. It isn’t accusing, but it is calculating, and calculating from Brenda is practically telepathy from anyone else. ‘You’re full of surprises, aren’t you,’ she murmurs around a smile, and then she leans back in, presses her tongue to Sharon’s clit three times in hot, quick succession, and she curls her fingers and rubs at roughness until Sharon cries out, helpless, and comes.</p><p>Chasing her breath, Sharon rakes still-trembling hands through the sweaty hair at her temples, looks down at the mess that is Brenda’s mouth, lipstick and slick and that gorgeous, insufferable smirk, and can’t help her smile. ‘Come here,’ she murmurs, voice raspy from heavy breathing and choked-down gasps. Sharon tugs at Brenda’s hair until she rises, righting Sharon’s soaked underwear and wrinkled skirt on her way up, and then she kisses her. She tastes herself on Brenda’s fierce lips, tastes something deeper than the desperate desire to get off when Brenda angles their mouths closer together. She has the sudden impulse to ask Brenda <i>What’s the matter? Has something changed?</i> but she isn’t sure she’s ready to hear her say no. </p><p>‘There’s time,’ she says instead, her own lips slack, her body thrumming with satisfaction and renewed desire at the way Brenda has manoeuvred herself to straddle Sharon’s thigh and is rutting against her. ‘Let me get at you.’ She says this mostly to herself, tugging Brenda’s skirt out of the way so she can slip her eager fingers beneath soaked fabric, but both of them groan when Sharon’s fingers slide into Brenda’s wet, waiting warmth as though they belong there.</p><p>‘Like that,’ Brenda hisses, ‘<i>yes</i>,’ and she cants her hips up to draw Sharon’s fingers deeper, reaches out to grip Sharon’s shoulder with one hand, brush Sharon’s hair out of her face with the other. She smiles as she does it, a moment of unexpected, unguarded friendliness – Sharon doesn’t dare call it affection – in a situation where they are usually trading barbs, and she finds herself smiling back, hesitant but true. When the single moment becomes two, becomes three, the pressure of exposure forces Sharon into action, and she hauls Brenda in by the hair – Brenda yelps, and Sharon swallows it – to kiss her. Perhaps Brenda senses that there is something loaded in this kiss, or perhaps she’s just in a sentimental mood because Sharon just moaned out her name, but whatever the reason, their usual push-and-pull gives way to something more nuanced; not gentler, not softer, but more real.</p><p>Sharon kisses her to the rhythm of her fingers, thrusting in and curling and sliding out, working her clit with teasing brushes, Brenda’s preferred form of torture, as she does. Brenda pulls sharply out of the kiss and breathes in hard, temples damp and neck flushed, and presses her face into Sharon’s neck instead. Her breath is humid and warm; Sharon skin tingles with it. Her hair is caught up in Sharon’s, blond and brown twisted together, and when Sharon notices, she slows her stroking, and then speeds it up, and she seeks and finds the spot that makes Brenda cry out, loud and abandoned and almost painful beside Sharon’s ear. With one last flick-rub to her clit, Brenda is clenching around Sharon’s fingers as she comes and comes, and Sharon stays lost in the bliss of watching her, pulled from it only, reluctantly, when Brenda’s obnoxious office ringtone pierces her mental haze. </p><p>‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Brenda mutters, but she pulls away from Sharon and rights her skirt – wiping her hands on it as she does, Sharon notes with distaste – before she moves to the desk. ‘Chief Johnson,’ she says into it, and then rolls her eyes. ‘Yes, sir, I know… I was just gettin’ ready to head up there. Yes.’ A pause, and then she looks up and meets Sharon’s eyes, smirk curling her too-pink lips as she raises an eyebrow, rakes her gaze down Sharon’s body and up again, lingering and appreciative. ‘Why, indeed I do, Chief Pope. She happens to be with me right now.’ A laugh, light and deadly. ‘Of course not. We’re both professionals. We know how to work together without too much bloodshed.’</p><p>Sharon flushes, tongues the swollen spot on her lip where Brenda bit her. She knows she’ll be able to see it, when she looks. She isn’t sorry.</p><p>Brenda hangs up, and she watches Sharon across the cavernous expanse of her desk and the room. She watches her, and everything in Sharon wants to fidget, create a diversion, protecting herself from piercing, intelligent eyes, but she holds her ground. She can still feel Brenda’s tongue in her mouth, Brenda’s fingers gripping hard on her hips and her thighs and her buttocks, but she raises her chin, and she doesn’t blink, and she holds her ground. If this a power play, it isn’t a power play she intends to lose.  </p><p>She can’t say for certain who wins, if both of them do or neither, but something between them has shifted by the time Gabriel knocks on the door to ask if they’re ready. Sharon hears him coming, at least, and has time enough to pick Brenda’s handbag off the floor and pass it to her; she takes it without a word, digging her lipstick out its depth and quickly reapplying some, granting Gabriel a bright pink smile when he pokes his head in. ‘Sergeant Gabriel, I trust you’re ready?’</p><p>‘Just coming to get you, Chief. Captain Raydor,’ he says, nodding. He keeps any animosity out of his voice with admiral control. Sharon nods back.</p><p>‘Just a moment, David,’ Brenda says. He closes the door behind him and Brenda straightens her floral abomination of a cardigan. ‘Do I look all right?’</p><p>This is the point at which Sharon would usually reply, “No worse than usual,” but today, now, she says, ‘Better than.’</p><p>Brenda blinks back her surprise, poorly hidden, and then she does something with her lips that might be a promising smile. ‘You scrub up okay yourself, Captain. The rolled-out-of-bed look suits you. And, ah,’ Brenda leans forward, lets her gaze roam once again, ‘that skirt does wonderful things for your legs.’</p><p>It’s the first time she’s said it. It’s the first time she’s said anything like it, paid Sharon a compliment outside the realm of, “Fuck me harder, yes, keep doin’ that,” or showed her appreciation by gazing Sharon up and down when she thinks she’s not looking. The fact that she’s said it, now, that she’s chosen this moment to voice a sentiment that has otherwise gone unspoken, feels more significant than the first time they kissed. She isn’t even wearing a pencil skirt.</p><p>To her horror, Sharon feels herself blushing; she pulls her glasses out of her jacket, puts them on, tosses her hair, and plunges her restless hands into her pockets. ‘Well, thank you,’ she tells her, stiffly. ‘I am rather partial to your legs as well.’</p><p>Brenda smirks. ‘Are you flirtin’ with me?’</p><p>‘Certainly not,’ Sharon says, faking outrage, hand to her chest. ‘I would never do something so unprofessional.’</p><p>Brenda laughs out loud, her face loose and lovely, and something bumps hard against Sharon’s ribs. It might be her heart. ‘Reconsider that position and I’ll have you on my desk.’ She looks up at Sharon from under her lashes, and Sharon wants to lock the door and keep her here all day while she makes good on that offer. ‘Next time,’ she adds.</p><p>Sharon heads for the door, brushes past her, too close, deliberately catching some of her warmth. She turns the handle and turns her head, and then she says, ‘I’ll do that.’</p><p>She doesn’t have to see Brenda’s smile to know it’s there.</p>
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